Skin Deep (2 page)

“I need to get out of here,” Erin blurted, gripping his forearm. “Take me out of here? I need to be alone, but I don’t want to be—alone.”

He nodded, pulling his arm back until their hands touched, then he squeezed her fingers. “We’ll get that box.”

“Thank you.”

He understood. Words were useless. They spilled from between numb lips with about as much sentiment as cold oatmeal. The words were a distraction from the pain inside, from the flight of thought and the ache of loss. He had no use for them, and she appeared just as fatigued from trying to use words adequately, of trying to think of responses when all her being just wanted to feel and keep feeling because Nebraska no longer could. Because Nebraska was dead and gone and no amount of stupid, pointless talking about it would bring him back. No amount of wishing would reverse it. He knew. He’d tried. He’d begged. He’d failed.

Hotch’s head pounded with unshed tears. His throat clogged with emotion, the high burn behind his eyes spreading to his temples and the urge to run and run and run hitting him so hard that Hotch shook as he held Erin’s hand and barreled through the chapel doors into the night air. Winter slapped him hard across the face, waking him enough to realize that he dragged her out there, and she jogged to keep up.

Slowing, he drew her close to his side, put his arm around her. “I’m sorry.”

She looked up just as wordless and lost as he felt. Her lips trembled, and he
knew
that feeling. He knew how unspoken her grief was, and he just wanted to make it better. For both of them. To make his hands stop shaking. To make her lips stop quivering. To still any recrimination from them that she might have because Hotch had failed to save Nebraska, and what kind of man did that make him?

He fumbled with the keys to his SUV and slid onto the driver’s seat as he reached for the kill box. He held it for a moment, fearful of handing over the last thing of Nebraska’s he had. He’d do this thing, and it would be over. Nebraska would really be gone then. There would be nothing left.

He looked at her, trying to find the right words with which to present her the box. Tears slid down her cheeks. Her sob broke free.

He didn’t think, he just acted. The box hit the passenger seat and he pulled her between his knees, holding her as tight as he could. He buried his face in her shoulder. She turned her head, crying into his neck, her arms so tight around him, he felt like their bodies had fused. Her tears gave his permission to fall as his defenses dissolved in her arms.

He rocked with her. Mutual solace from mutual pain, and like a soul-wrenching fire it ate him alive from the inside.

Erin stroked his hair. “It’s not your fault,” she whispered over and over.

Though her voice broke with emotion and tears wet her face, she continued to reassure him. Didn’t she know it
was
his fault? He could have died instead, and she wouldn’t be grieving. None of this would have happened because he didn’t have a family.

He’d spent a lifetime guarding his heart, and Nebraska had relentlessly weaseled his way in. A breaking spot in his emotional defenses he had not foreseen. Nebraska had gotten in there somehow and with his death, the crack became wider still as he accepted comfort from Erin.

Hotch pulled away far enough to stare at her. There was another one? Someone else who could sneak under his defenses? Her lips still shivered. Her eyes, colorless in the shadows, peered back at him through her anguish.

He couldn’t fix the pain since he drowned in it too, but he could stop the trembling. He could do that.

Hotch tipped his head and smoothed his mouth over hers. Just to warm them, he told himself. To connect with the last thread of Nebraska through Erin and nothing more, he insisted to his conscience. Erin leaned into it, clutched the back of his head with the same desperation he had tried to keep at bay.

A tear flavored their lips, and Hotch knew a kiss wouldn’t be enough. He needed her like he needed air to breathe, like this fire needed his guilt to keep burning. In kissing her, he saw a glimmer of solace, just a whisper-like hope flickering in the distance of despair. And like the bastard he was, he followed it in mindless pursuit.

But she parted her lips and tangled her tongue with his. The numbness slid away, and without its gauzy protection his soul rioted with grief, and pain, and feeling, making everything raw again. Making it new. Making it hurt, dear God it hurt so fucking bad.

Slowly his arms woke. He pulled her onto his lap and twisted his body so that they were in the car. Erin broke away. He thought he’d overstepped, but she leaned out only to grab the door handled and close them away from the world.

Their gazes clashed. White puffs of breath chased from their lips on the wisping tails of the previous one. Only a momentary calm in the storm that raged unceasingly, the break ended as quickly as it started, and he kissed her again.

The seat gave out under him, and he jerked before understanding that she’d reclined them. His hands smoothed the outside of her thighs beneath her dress hem. She didn’t stop him and suddenly kissing wasn’t enough. He needed to feel her heat. It reminded him that life continued.

They were both lonely. His fingers inched over the thin satin covering her pussy. It was warmed by her body and damp, and he hated it for holding anything of her away from him. With a grunt, he tugged it to the side and pushed his fingers deep inside her. Erin gasped sharply, her mouth open and hovering over his as though she hadn’t known where this was going. But she had, and she proved it when she sucked his bottom lip as she opened his belt buckle and zipper.

He lifted his hips, and she pushed his pants out of the way. Hotch barely pulled his fingers out before she grasped his cock and sank on it. He groaned. She swallowed the sound. He held her hips. She lifted and sank, rocking her hips on the downstroke.

Erin cried, but, then, so did he. He shared her grief and flooded his body with the intensity of all the emotions his pathetic human soul could manage.

He hadn’t died. But he’d die a mini-death with her tonight. Both inevitabilities occupying a place at opposite ends of the spectrum. One tied up the loose ends of living. The other celebrated living. One extreme to the other. There was no in between with grief. Death or life. Love or hate. All or nothing. It was the SEAL way, or maybe it was humanity.

Erin rode him. She closed her eyes and weirdly he remembered what Nebraska had said.
She makes love with her eyes closed
. Nebraska had thought it was cute.

Hotch didn’t have an opinion on it, except gratitude that they could both get lost in pleasure, alone. He closed his eyes too. He bucked into her. She panted wildly, making soft, high-pitched noises as though she were reaching for something almost within her grasp. He focused on the sound, using it to drive his need higher.

It took him by surprise when it happened. She pounded his cock; her body milked him greedily. Cum ripped from him without preamble. His climax was sharp, intense, and satisfying as blessed fatigue soaked into him.

Erin cuddled against his chest. He shifted her, tucking her shoulder underneath his arm and holding her. Her face touched his, side by side almost, though her legs still covered his lap. The numbness didn’t return, but neither did the acute loss. Grief was given its outlet, and was now shared with someone equally stricken.

His breathing eased. She’d barely stirred, but he knew she was awake from the occasional flutter of her eyelashes on his cheek when she blinked. From time to time a car door slammed, an engine started. Then a long time passed, and he heard no other cars.

“Can I drive you home?” he asked.

“I’d like that. It’s been a long day.”

And once again, words sifted through the air, meaningless, superficial, with no acknowledgement of the counseling their bodies had given each other.

This time, it was a relief.

Chapter Two

Two Years Later

Dad was home. That had meant Hotch was back from the Middle East. It had also meant she’d had about a day and a half to find him before the debriefing ended, and they were released on leave.

That’s why she stood outside Hell’s Dune, watering hole to the nearby naval base, at nine p.m. on a Friday night. By tomorrow, he’d be gone. Now if only she could calm her thundering heart. A group of guys hooted as they walked by her. She ignored their catcalls. She’d been around military guys long enough to know what every other woman in America failed to recognize. Men would fuck you no matter what you looked like, as long as you were willing. It killed the mystique for her.

Though she planned what she wanted to say to Hotch a million times over, the words failed her. Baring one’s soul was never easy, especially with the threadbare relationship they shared so far.

Erin took a deep breath to fortify herself. Then before she thought better of it, she pushed open the heavy wooden door of Hell’s Dune. Gooding Naval base was coed. It made sense that the occupants of the favorite hangout would be, too. She dragged her gaze around the room, touching on all the things that reminded her of growing up as a Navy brat.

The dartboard, the pool table well used and well scarred, the dusty chalkboard showing the current record holders in all things naval from underwater distances, to demolitions were hallmarks of the competitive nature inherent in the troops. The scent of old wood and whiskey assailed her with familiarity. Faded team pictures ran the circuit of the room, labeled with each of the team names. Below them, a slim ledge of photographs lined up like silent sentinels, side by side each with its own upturned whiskey glass to commemorate the fallen soldiers and one last drink in their memory.

Her gaze landed on Troy’s image. His serious snapshot still had the dance of humor in his eyes, as though the photographer had insisted Troy’s perpetual smile be quelled for the two seconds it took to take the photo, only to have him resume the minute the flash bulb dimmed.

She missed him. He’d been her best friend and a tender lover when she’d needed one. She had no idea he’d intended to propose to her until she’d opened his kill-box and had seen the modest cushion cut solitaire inside. Mrs. O’Neal had confirmed it.

Maybe she would have married him, too. Imagining her life without him seemed impossible. His tenderness, his smile, his calm way of assessing every situation while delving into life and soaking it up. It never failed to amaze her that he only absorbed the good. Ever hopeful, always optimistic, he approached life with the exuberance of a child and the surprising wisdom of a weathered farmer.

He’d been a balm to her weary soul. His light had shined so brightly that not having it had made the future look dim in comparison. And then there was Hotch.

She’d been spotted, she realized. He sat at the bar with friends. They all glanced at her. Hotch raised an inquiring brow. Erin walked to him, locking her eyes on her target lest she lose her nerve.

Now or never, she reminded herself. In another day, he’d be gone.

“Hi,” he said first.

She smiled with relief. “Hi. Can we talk?”

Her gaze searched his. He nodded briefly and stood. The guys teased him like they expected him to score. Yeah, she knew the way these guys thought. She’d lived around men just like them her whole life. It was always about diving and women. She tried not to let her annoyance show.

As he stepped toward her, one of them called his name and threw something. Hotch caught it mid-air and examined it while the others laughed loudly. She saw what it was when he opened his palm to look at the projectile.

A condom? Nice, she thought, rolling her eyes.

“Fuck you,” he snarled laughingly at them. He turned to her, his eyes still smiling. “C’mon. It’ll be quieter outside.”

The monument beside Hell’s Dune overlooked the coast. Its pristine white bench and walls circled the stone with the names of lost sailors. Shadows flickered over them, stretching out the letters into long lines before sweeping them away again as the blue eternal flame danced in the protective embrace of the enclosure.

“Not here,” she told him. Her throat tightened.

“Here’s perfect,” he countered. “Here we can remember Nebraska together, and since that’s how you and I know each other, it seems fitting.”

She tried to swallow around the growing lump of nervousness in her throat. She shook her head, took his hand, and pulled him toward the back of the building. “Not here. Please.”

He stood rooted, studying her as though she were a puzzle to be worked out. Finally he relented and followed her out of sight of the parking lot and into the darkness. The patio wasn’t lit, despite the warm summer temperatures which could have drawn people outdoors. The ice freezer hummed by the back door of the bar. Waves crashed in the distance, comforting sounds carried on moist North Carolina summer air.

God, this was hard, she thought.

She’d just formulated what she wanted to say, when Hotch moved in close. Looking up at him was a mistake he took for permission. He leaned down and covered her mouth with his. She let him. Every racing thought stilled.

Erin hadn’t meant to kiss him, but the moment their mouths touched it seemed like the perfect idea. Her arms slid around his shoulders as she pressed against him, accepted the kiss and welcomed him.